


Disgusted

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of lies the woman of Mycroft Holmes tells him that he does not acknowledge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disgusted

At the beginning he was not a nice man. Mycroft Holmes was bitter cold and cruel who looked for every excuse to have this woman fired. He asked the most ridiculous things of the young brunette-required a tenacity from her that not even he had, asked her mundane questions he knew the answers to and filled her days with menial tasks below even that of the janitor in the office.

And she, with all the pose of an heiress, took it upon herself to just keep that of which bothered her to herself, because she was and naive, sentenced to this life because it was all that was left for her-besides the life of a house wife -a prize, a trophy woman She’d not gone to University, putting her chances of being what she waned to be at a percentile range of near impossible. So at night when she finally escaped the abuse of his thumbs, she could crawl into bed and remember she chose this over that of nothingness, a princess with a destiny to be locked away in a tower. 

He of course, was brutal regardless, and he noted human suffering as a condition of life. He found her weak when she came in bleary, like a human should be able to withstand the intellectual abuse of a Holmes-that his isolation was not from the cruel sneer on his lips but because he simple was more of an evolved being than the rest of society. And she should, being of superior physical beauty, be equally superior in intellect as well. To Mycroft Holmes the neck she sticks out is the bridge that he trends on because that’s what he’s supposed to do as employer to employee.

She spent her paycheck under the impression that the way she dresses will reciprocate the way she behaves. She was always a quiet woman-which drove her employer nuts-and with the calamity of her personality and colors of her wardrobe-the personification of her being became enigmatic to say the least. Like the women of the film noir era she became the femme fatale attached to his hip instead of this parasite against his side.

He watched her blossom, which, ultimately gave him this power and belief that under the right conditions the nature of a human is able to fold upon itself and emerge in the likeness of it’s creator- a manifestation of it’s encouragement that behavior of women under his thumb is untimely timid and weak and he creates her as such. A black shadow inside his room, she is graceful and soundless like women should be. 

His encounter with her in the streets ultimately destroyed his conviction that she was in fact, a quiet, timid woman. She had not seen him, or had chosen to ignore his presence (for some odd reason he’d like to think it was the first) and found her among what could have been a lovely date-were the man not such a simpleton. This meek woman was not quite so among the humans, her eyes that cradled dull information by day held fire against this man’s body and frame. The was he approached her as not all that special, despite the claims that she’s ‘his love, bird, doll’. He witnessed the quiet assistant let fly an intellectually advanced sentence filled with relevant and truthful facts, that not only colored her dates face, but highly impressed the shadowed Holmes. She flung upon this ignorant man her water in a way that is an accident to everyone but him. He fled that scene before he could witness her leaving, or catching him in the shadows.

She let him broach the subject, but let him tread carefully. He asked her, between russian papers, whether she intended to keep her silence or let fly the personality he saw. She answered him with the conclusion that her job was more important than her personality and concealing her colors meant a paycheck at the end of the month. She implied he would not like her at her fullness. He told her this was false. He had no reason to tell her this was his conviction, because he was, for a very brief milisecond, unsure of his own words. Her quietness returned, and for the first time since her hiring he became uncertain that this is what he wanted from her. The further inspection of her revealed that she wasn’t going to tell him the truth about who she was-her Chanel wrapped body was not only a personification but also a disguise to hide behind. But who she was hiding from became but a mystery to the man with eyes all over the world.

He handed her a mobile and told her not to lose it. It was nothing special, just a phone with buttons and keys just the same, a generic black color with a generic screen. She of course, knew that when he spoke to her directly it meant something important, and so that phone became a lifeline-a tie to him.It came to rest in the pocket on her hip and when it wasn’t there it was in her grasp or on her bedside table. It never left her sight because it was so important to him, and it was an extension of him, and she was his, underneath the scrutiny and grasp that was him. To her there was nothing without him because he made it that way-the employer that held the keys to her life, because he manipulated her in such a way that it was all she became. 

He knew that she would find it more important than her life, and being the manipulative sick man he is, it became his eyes into her private life. Every move she made he could see through the camera, every sounds she spoke he could hear through the microphone. It was disgusting, this habit he harbored, that everything she was he could shape, so long as he handed her something and looked at her directly. He could hear every time she showered, see when she dressed-the small tattoo she harbored as a secret on the top of her thigh he could see because he was that kind of pervert, an employer with a dirty nasty secret to be in charge, to be filled with information to destroy his employees. He wished to annalihate her existence, because how could a woman remind him of how much he hated himself? Certainly not her.

The first time Mycroft Holmes reached out to touch her, she pulled back like he’d slapped her. She didn’t trust him and that was good, because he’s not a man to be trusted. She curls away from him and he’s certain it’s not his fault she does so, but that she is a victim of something much darker than his thoughts could offer. She reminds him both that he is a bad man and that his is not the worse man out there. She does not know him well enough to allow him to hold onto her the way he wants to, whether it is a brief touch to grab her attention or not. As much of a shadow as she is to him, she becomes a little bit darker-as if she’s more than this graceful contradiction of a woman, she is something of a human nature that he has dismissed a long while ago. 

It occurs to her he has never asked her for a name. She’s given him nothing since her hiring, that he’s never found her interesting enough to be more than ‘you’. When he asks her in the middle of the Christmas party, he is only silently drunk, just enough to hunch that back that is normally straight. He mishears what she’s said, and thus to him she becomes Anthea, Anthea Jones, his woman and oddly enough the possession of being someone else’s does not bother her because ‘his woman’ is not actually his, just a shade of a woman whose more than 50 shades of black. Being ‘his woman’ makes him ‘her man’ and by extension that frigid back is also her frigid back. Anthea Jones is born on a drunk night in the office, where Mycroft Holmes finally admits to himself that he is fascinated by her, disgustingly so.

And she is okay with this. For now.


End file.
